


Miracle In The Mirthhall

by Fox_Salz



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Alternia is Terrible, Bathtub Sex, Blasphemy, Clown Courting, Clowns, Codpieces, Faygo (Homestuck), First Dates, Holidays, Juggling, M/M, Service Top, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Salz/pseuds/Fox_Salz
Summary: Gamzee's been pining for a while, and what better time to finally step up and talk to a motherfucker than on a honkiday?
Relationships: Darkleer/Gamzee Makara
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Bucket Swap's Stocking Stuffers





	Miracle In The Mirthhall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oncewewerezombies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/gifts).



> Lmao this got so out of hand, I had just imagined a couple K of Gamzee riding Darkleer's bulge and yet and yet. Zombie, I hope you enjoy the inanity.
> 
> Also! Further warnings for some background nasty stuff, like culling, the hemospectrum, the Signless piñata, some mentions of dubious consent in regards to GHB's everything let's be real, and some non descriptive injuries. Oh and drug use but you could have assumed that since this is all about clowns.

It is all up and motherfucking time for a mad miracle on this sick wicked honkiday, and you—being one ready pimp ninja—are gonna make it _happen_.

There’s a great celebration going on in the Mirthhall for Laffivus. It spills out into the hallways and adjoining areas, yeah, but all the main biz is happening right here. It’s a slew of your brothers, sisters, siblings throwing up merciless hellmirth at the Messiahs. Plenty of people are stark ass naked as the day they done hatched. To be closer to the Messiah’s is the official reason but mostly you’re pretty sure so it’s just all around easier to get their pailing on. Orgies are a pretty big part of the festivities, or for the shyer clowns ain’t nothing wrong with getting it on one-on-one. Course all that’s mostly saved for the outlining rooms, since there’s so much going on here like fire breathing, axe throwing, that trick where you saw a motherfucker in half and put them back together again (probably, give or take a few chunks,). Motherfucking miracles. Some brave souls are getting it on during all this chaos and you gotta admire their tenacity. You ain’t even naked, just chilling in your usual getup except with a few horn decorations because you all up got the spirit of the season in your pusher.

It’s not just fellow clowns participating. There are a few wild indigos who’re down to clown, some brave ass teals getting their mingle on, and even a handful of lowbloods. Most of those are morals trying to keep their diamonds alive or from doing something too stupid in the name of celebration. Gotta admire that pale dedication. Really fits in with Laffivus and all it stands for.

It’s a week long shindig that’s all about the miraculous chaos of the ties that bind, especially in the harshness of this season. You know, quadrants and friendships, burning black hatemance and the palest of feelings jams, flush as a blooming flower, ashen as a hearth, all that good shit. It’s all about what is and could be, if you down another Faygo and get your boney ass up and troll right the fuck up.

You got someone in mind you wanna spend the day with. Get all up in his business and show him a damn good time, show him you ain’t just some subjug in training, some wiggler who can’t even juggle his own clubs. Nah, you’re a bona fide pimp with real game, and you’re gonna game right the fuck all over him.

Which wasn’t some euphemism at first but now it sure the fuck is.

The biggest goddamn problem right now is the motherfucker ain’t in the hall. Your ganderbulbs have been scanning the crowd for a couple hours now but no hide nor hair of that fine ass and abs. A goddamn shame, but it all up and makes sense. That guy ain’t one all into big gatherings unless your ancestor done mandated it. He does that sometimes to fuck with him. Big guy’s sense of humor’s whack, but you can’t say you don’t appreciate the extra time with him.

Time you better go make yourself right the fuck now before you cluckbeast out again. Again, because for three nights now of sweet celebration you’ve put it off. Tonight, though. You are motherfucking _ready_. The readiest ninja in this whole joint. So ready that you could spit a mad fucking rhyme all about how goddamn ready you are.

Ignoring the fact you ain’t gotten up outta your seat yet.

You swear to both Messiahs you were just about to, but then your ass gets sidetracked as an older laughssassin makes his way over to you. Specifically by doing an impressive head over heels tumble when his kismesis pushes him over, stopping right before slamming into you and springing to his feet.

“Mad impressive, motherfucker.”

There’s either paint or slurry smeared across his mussed up makeup. With this honkiday it could easily be either.

“Gambalam! What the fuck is up?”

“Just getting my chill on, brother.”

Axandr grins like that’s the most amusing shit that could have rolled off your gablicker. He don’t get a chance to say nothing, though, before his kismesis mosies on up beside him, elbow knocking rough against his arm and making him stumble a bit before catching himself.

“I see you’re still by your lonesome,” Truffa notes. “All clothed and shit.”

“Ain’t gonna be that way for much longer,” you assure, feeling suddenly like a wiggler who ain’t ever pailed before. You definitely have, ain’t no doubts there, but you maybe don’t have much experience in the quadrants area.

Truffa just looks at you like they ain’t buying a word you’re selling.

“How often you been spouting that, Gamgam? Need some schoolfeeding on how to bag you your own idiot? Or you wanna borrow mine for a spell? Take this tiny motherfucker for a spin?”

“I appreciate those offers, but ain’t no worries, I all got this. Was just on my way to track down the apple of my oculars when your fine selves interjected on my plans.”

You flash them an easy grin like the assured pimp ass motherfucker you are tonight. There’s a bulge out there with your name on it and you intend to let the bulge owner know. Right the fuck now.

You don’t move.

“Well don’t let us keep you, Gamgam.”

“Yeah!” Axandr comes over and slaps you on the back, grinning over at his kismesis. “This clownlet is gonna get him some tonight! Don’t let anything stand in your way.”

“Sure the fuck ain’t gonna, no worries there, motherfuckers.”

“Cool cool, Gamgam. You gonna keep talking the talk without showing us the follow through or...?”

All your frown does is make Truffa snicker.

“You ain’t gonna get anywhere by hiding out here. Get yourself out of the brooding caves, little grub.”

Axandr slaps your ass hard and you give a jolt, honking in surprise.

“Clown up, motherfucker! Go get your man before his most mirthful of clown gets a whiff of your stank love pheromones and snatches his bitchtits ass up.”

That’s a real possibility. Your ancestor thinks that shit’s up and fucking funny. Likes to swoop in when he knows a motherfucker is pining and either get them in his harem or cull them depending on how they react to his seducing. Old man really likes getting the last laugh.

“Good point,” Truffa agrees, flipping off their kismesis when he starts grinning like he won something. “We gotta get cracking and make you presentable.”

You gaze on down at your baggy clothes, claw picking at the waistband of your sweatpants. Shit, yeah, might not be the most alluring like this, especially not to a classy motherfucker the likes of which you’ve set your pusher on. Guess it’s time to start stripping.

The other two whistle as you lose the shirt, flinging it somewhere to get lost in the crowd. Then you drop your sweats, earning some catcalls when you reveal you ain’t bothered with any underwear. Not just from them, but a few other trolls around the hall. You give an easy grin, already starting to feel more in the clowniday spirit, more ready to bag you some fat bulge in your nook.

“Good start, brother,” Axandr praises. “Already looking like a proper clown on the catch.”

“Still missing something. Lots o’ somethings.”

Truffa’s eyes rake over your lanky motherfucking frame critically. Makes you wanna stand up to your full height—six feet right now until your last miraculous molt comes about, and eight if you up and count the horns (which you do).

“So plain. That ain’t gonna do, Gamgam. Let’s get some paint on you.”

They whip out a dagger and slice Axandr’s upper arm. He yelps, pouting but not trying to wiggle away as Truffa gathers the blood on their fingers and goes over to you. Uses your chest like a fucking canvas as they draw a smiling honk face. They step back a second and take it in before up and making one eye wink. You honk in delight.

“Bitchtits, sibling.”

“It’s a start. Motherfucker’s shaping up, at least.”

“I ain’t volunteering anymore of my blood, motherfucker,” Axandr growls, clutching his arm.

“Nah, Gamgam needs something else to complete the look, that’ll really draw that uptight blue fuck’s attention.”

A jesthymn starts up, the righteous honking cascading over the conversation. It’s a beautiful sound that fills you with holy mirth, and you open your mouth to join in. Truffa just yanks you into a side room, Axandr right behind so you can’t abscond. Sounds of the jesthymns still filter through, their mirthful melody muffled.

Also there are clowns in here who all great you warm as rusty blood. They’re up and getting decorated for the night’s parade as different Laffivus Funny Bones. You don’t pay them much mind, the other two still fussing over you.

“So what all you got for that wicked motherfucker?” Axandr wonders. “I got Truffa some nice new pants that’ll really extenuate their plush rump.”

You see his hand go behind them, and you can only presume he’s squeezing the aforementioned plush rump. Truffa’s expression doesn’t change but you catch a flicker of burning hatemance in their eyes.

“He set fire to half my goddamn wardrobe and by the end of this week I’m gonna choke him to death with my thighs.”

This just delights the motherfucker. You really admire their kismesissitude; you think about how it puts a craving in your own pusher to get your hate on with somebody, but ain’t a motherfucker be giving you black stirrings right the fuck now. Nah, your pump biscuit is all waxing red and it’s the only quadrant you can focus on currently.

Reaching into your sylladex, the Messiahs deem it worthy enough to give a miracle and you manage to pull out the gift you got him on the second try. First time you get a Faygo and toss it at the other motherfuckers.

What you got him is a pen. Which don’t sound like much, but you made it yourself, carving the outside out of bone from a creature you done up and hunted yourself—actually you had been dozing underneath a tree when it came and got its fucking bite on, and you acted out of reflex more than anything; motherfucker had _hurt_. Regardless, you carved this up and engraved it with his goddamn name, because classy fucking pens have that good shit. Even put a little heart on the inside of the cap, colored in your blood so as to make sure if the motherfucker accepts your quadrant proposing he’ll always have your heart with him.

“Aww, that’s a great gift, Gamby.”

“Definitely good for a desk bitch. Practical. He’ll up and appreciate that thoughtfulness, brother.”

You beam. Truthfully you’re still pretty nervous because the guy’s the real mysterious type. Doesn’t say much about himself. Doesn’t really mingle with people unless he’s all forced to. Ain’t offering up his opinions. Sure it ain’t his job to be having opinions, but a motherfucker can’t help but be curious.

“I appreciate the approval, siblings. I think I’m up and ready to get my seducing on.”

“It’s adorable that you think that, Gamgam, but you’re still missing that final oomph.”

“What you got in mind?”

They stare at you a moment in contemplation, and you can see the gears all a’turning. Just as you’re about to get all sorts of impatient Truffa snaps their fingers and cranes around to call out at the Funny Bones.

“Y’all motherfuckers got some spare parts for this little shit?”

They all cheer and start rummaging around what’s left. In a tornado of mirth and clownitude they dance around you, adoring you with odds and ends. Shoulder pads of feathers dyed black and purple, An attaching collar that points down your chest right at the face Truffa drew, grey furry cuffs around your ankles, chimes dangling from your horns that someone also loosely wraps silk streamers around, some sort of scaled arm piece on either of your forearms, and then the final accessory which one of them holds up proudly before fastening around your waist. You give your hips a jiggle, giddy at how the codpiece moves around. It ain’t up and traditional like, but rather made of bones, fitted and carved together to make a sort of cage with bars around your sheathe. Heh. A motherfucker could get use to this look.

“Ain’t that a goddamn transformation,” Truffa marvels, slapping Axandr on the back. “I almost think you’re ready to go get your motherfucker.”

The Funny Bones let out another raucous cheer, someone pulling out a Faygo and passing it around. Then there’s another bottle, then two more, and by the time you all amble out of there you’re feeling pretty righteous. Like a ninja who is all up gonna get what he’s been dreaming of every day for the past half a sweep or longer.

You, Truffa, and Axandr parade around with the other Funny Bones for a while, swept up in the merriment. Other clowns honk and spray y’all with sticky Faygo as you twirl and somersault around the hall. Whooping and hollering fills your auditory clots as wicked mirth fills your pusher. There are chucklevoodoos heavy in the air, wafting freely around, and you can’t help adding your own to the mix. They curve around what’s already there, tangle up in the ambience and spread a hellacious fervor through the crowd.

Someone brings out a large piñata shaped like a nubby horned heretic hanging from a noose and several Funny Bones push you up there. With a few honks you whip out your clubs and whap it to the cheering of your clown siblings. You step back to give your companions a fair go, and while a few dents are made the thing is up and still swinging by the time it comes back to you. Arm rearing back, you bring it hard against the piñata’s head and bash the motherfucker in. It goes swinging around wildly, spraying you and the crowd with all sorts of treats.

For a while more you celebrate with the others. It’s all sorts of miraculous and awesome, and makes your spirit soar. You’re ready to take on the motherfucking universe.

But first you gotta confess a motherfucker.

The congregation starts spilling out into the hall gathering up all the clowns that have wandered out into the adjoining areas. Even in the middle of pailing they give righteous whoop whoops that echo through the halls.

Eventually Truffa drags you and Axandr off, and the other Funny Bones call out good luck at you, making heat spread across your damn face. Ain’t no reaction that a pimp bitch like you should be having but fuck this is big. You may be feeling more ready, but that don’t make this shit up and easy by any means.

They force you a ways off, out of clown territory and through the chilly yard, towards the private quarters of your flushcrush. You honk a few times to calm yourself down. Ain’t no one outside in this area, then no one’s in these blue halls and it feels like a whole different world. All quiet and shit. Makes you aware of your own damn pusher banging against your ribcage.

Truffa stops you right in front of his door and leans in close.

“I got my belief on for you, Gamgam. You go and rock that blue blood’s uptight world.”

“And tell us if the guy’s a complete bottom or service top or what. I got a bet going.”

The pair leave you just staring at his door. It’s fucking imposing all of a sudden. But you can’t give in to fear and doubt, not on this clowniday of all days. If you don’t do this now you might as well crawl into the motherfucking vents and get your cowardly ass lost. So you take a deep breath and muster all the courage you got up in your pusher, and raise your trembling fist to the door—

And then there’s a motherfucking voice right behind you.

“Might I help you?”

You let out a startled honk and spin around, coming face to motherfucking face with one Horuss goddamn Zahhak, Royal executioner, personal confidant to your tumultuous ancestor, and your motherfucking flushcrush.

He looks at you all confused like, and you think you might melt into the goddamn floor. Forcing yourself to troll up you give the guy a grin and nod once, going to put your hands in your pockets before you remember all you got on around there is the codpiece.

“Just the motherfucker I had gotten my search on for. What is up, my righteous brother?”

“Gamzee,” he returns in a tone you can’t rightly parse. “You look quite...festive. Was there a specific reason you required my presence? Does the Grand Highblood need me for something?”

“Nah, ain’t nothing like that. We don’t need to bring that motherfucker into our business. Just wanted to see what you were getting up to on this glorious evening.”

“Marely what I do on every clown celebration.”

“Rejoice?”

“Get work done and avoid everyone.”

“Heh. Sounds like what you do every day.”

“Serving the empire is a never ending honor.”

Even with those sexy dark glasses over his eyes you still catch the way he twitches. Motherfucker really needs a chance to get his relax on.

“Sounds like you need a break, brother. Why don’t you all use me as an excuse and invite this motherfucker in?”

You can feel his quizzical gaze roaming you all over, trying to figure you out. You just give him a pleasant smile in return and hope.

Finally he gives a stilted nod and squeezes past you—which is up and hilarious since he’s so fucking huge and climbable—to open the door. Even holds it open for you as he ushers your ass in. Which he gets a good view of as you enter, and you catch his whispered _oh my hoofness_. Can’t help taking that as a good sign.

“I usually request visitors to leave their shoes at the door, but I suppose the point is moot with you.”

With a grin you wiggle your bare toes.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll go fix us some coffee.”

You honk in agreement, watching the motherfucker leave for an adjoining block. Damn he’s fine. If you play your cards right you can take a ride on this show pony tonight.

When you finally drag your oculars away from his fine frame—solely because he ain’t in sight no more—you take a moment to examine the place. Everything’s nice and neat, obvious a classy motherfucker done the decorating. Fancy ass paintings on the walls, a musclebeast sculpture in one corner towering, a plush couch you plop down on. It gives you a good view of the culinaryblock, Horuss’ back turned to you as he fiddles around making coffee.

You reach into your sylladex for the gift you got him, but your miracles are taking a goddamn siesta as instead a half drunk Faygo appears in your graspers. Putting it back you try again, eyeing Horuss carefully and hoping he doesn’t turn the fuck around yet. This time you get your clubs. Then you get a spare shirt, a bottle of wine (you keep that out), a keychain with a face of mirth and a face of rage, a hairbrush you ain’t ever used, a sack of flour that sprays out all over you, and then _finally_ the Messiahs take pity and hand you his gift.

Just in time, too, as he comes back in with a dainty serving tray that looks several sorts of funny in his big hands. But he gets it to a little breakfast table he’s got in here on the other side of the block, and you mosey on over with the gift behind your back. The wine you have out in the open, setting it on the table with a grin. He seems surprised but pleased and a thrill shoots through you.

He says the coffee’s almost ready and you give a honk of acknowledgement, waiting for him to go back into the other block before taking a seat and placing the pen on the table where he’ll up and see it soon as he returns. Nervous energy fills you, and your leg starts going up and down like you’re in a bouncy castle; your pusher is racing like you’re in one of them bouncy castle duals, too, where two clowns go in and only one motherfucker up and leaves.

The motherfucker doesn’t leave you waiting long, a pot of what you assume is coffee carefully held in his hands. Not a regular pot, but some pretty ass blue kettle with a horse face embossed on the porcelain.

“Here we are. Terribly sorry for the wait, Gamzee.”

Makes your chest all tighten up to hear him say your name. Sure he may only know it ‘cause of your lineage, but at least he’s not thinking of you like some random subjug in training who’s come up unannounced to his quarters. Means you got a chance.

“Ain’t no worry,” you wave off as he pours you both a cup. You watch the rising steam to try and keep from just staring at him like the lovestruck fool you are.

“One lump or two?” he asks, and you have to bite back any kinky innuendo.

“Just dump some in, brother.”

He drops in two sugar cubes and looks at you. You motion for him to keep going. After eight more cubes he gives up with a sigh and clanks them in by the handful. Grinning, you flash him a thumbs up.

When he sits down he notices the pen and your pusher is up and banging in your auditory clots. You hardly hear when he comments on it.

“It’s for you. Happy Laffivus.”

Your eyes are glued to his deft digits as he gets his reach on, picking the pen up as delicate as he carried the fine cups and kettle. He turns it around carefully in his hands.

“I admarer the craftsmanship, Gamzee. It’s quite lovely.”

Alright, you can up and die happy now. You’ve ascended to Carnivalhalla, eternally throwing sick rhymes with the great clowns of old.

“Though, to my udderstanding one only gives gifts to quadrants or those they’re trying to court.”

You lean forward on your elbows and wink. Blue spreads across Horuss’ face. What a pretty motherfucking shade.

“Hoofness. That’s rather, ah, flattering, Gamzee. But it would behoove me to remind you of our positions, not to mention the age difference.”

“Oh I got my awares on of that fact, brother. Ain’t no worries there.”

His blue blush only deepens.

“I hope you don’t think me foalish, Gamzee, but I can’t understand why you would possibly be interested in me, or even in what quadrant. There are plenty of your own caste around your own age that I’m sure find you fetching.”

“Do you up and find this motherfucker ‘fetching’?”

“I feel that’s a rather inappropriate question that I shouldn’t answer.”

A grin grows across your face. He’s getting real nervous; you can taste it on your tongue and it makes your bulge stir. Little motherfucker wants to come out and play, but even if it spills it’s still cage by the codpiece. Wonder what this blue bitch would up and have to say about that.

“I don’t want none of my clown siblings,” you continue. “Ain’t interested in them. Only got my interest on you, Horuss motherfucking Zahhak.”

He is all sorts of _speechless_ , and you delight in watching his pretty gob flap around in an attempt to respond. Ain’t nothing coming out, though.

“You are motherfucking adorable,” you tell him, emboldened. You can feel the spirit of the Messiahs on your side tonight. “Sexy, too. Damn fine all around. Honk.”

Gotta say, this is a miraculous motherfucking sight to behold. Flustered Horuss. You could watch this all night as he tries to come to terms with your affection, if you weren’t so ready to get an answer one way or another.

“Purrbeast got your tongue, brother?”

Horuss swallows, and your eyes trace the curve of his rugged neck. This troll is a brick house that you wanna rub your face all over (among other things).

“Pardon. I was just taken aback. Quite aback.”

Man, you’d love to be on your back right now. Better not give voice to that unless you wanna spook this pony before it lets you on.

“Ain’t no worry, this clown juggles, not judges. Just wondering.”

“Wondering?”

“What all you gotta say.”

Carefully he puts the pen down. You note with a twinge of remorse that he ain’t seen the little hidden heart yet. A surprise for later, it’s fine.

“Right, yes. Gamzee, I must admit that of all the numerous clowns I hayve...had the honor of dealing with, you are by far the least aggravating and more wonderfoally docile of the bunch.”

A bunch of clowns is a giggle, but you don’t feel like correcting a motherfucker, not when he’s all praising you like this. You’re cheesing like a wiggler whose lusus gave him a fucking cookie for being good.

“I do appreciate this sentiment. However.”

Oh, ain’t nothing about that word you like. Rubs the hair in the back up your neck the wrong way and makes it stand up like a threshecutioner at attention.

“Any sort of liaison colt be considered quite inappropriate between the two of us. Your ancestor—“

“That motherfucker ain’t gonna say shit. He’s up and warming his bulge in whichever troll catches his oculars, blood not a factor.”

“I can’t dispute that. Still, he is the Grand Highblood. Things are different for him.”

“If you’re afraid he’s gonna up and cull you, don’t worry your pretty mane, motherfucker. He’ll think this is all sorts of funny.”

“I suppose he might, with his unique brand of humor. Still. It would behoove you to keep cautious.”

“You know, you keep on giving all these reasons why we can’t be together, but I ain’t heard a motherfucker say it’s cause he’s not interested.”

That makes the motherfucker shut his mouth and fiddle with his glasses all nervous like. Damn that’s adorable to watch. Also satisfying as fuck. You feel one step closer to quadranting up. It’s tricky, though, ‘cause it’d be real easy to spook Horuss away. Gotta lure him in with sweetness.

“How about this, brother? I’m gonna motherfucking get my court on for you all proper, and then at the end of the honkiday you can give me your answer one way or another, no worries about breaking this clown’s pusher.”

“Oh! I suppose that’s reasonable. Clown courting, I assume?”

You honk in confirmation.

“Oh dear.”

You’re ready to abscond and go prepare—which mostly consists of asking Truffa and Axandr for more advice—but then he tells you your coffee’s getting cold and you stay. For a few good hours, actually. Not that it’s unusual for you to lose track of time, but with him it’s even more pronounced. Even get the motherfucker to crack a smile a couple times. Miracles.

Eventually you leave and head back to your quarters to think and get a little siesta in. You got a few things rolling around in your pan. Wanna do this right, really impress the motherfucker. He all up and deserves it. Anyone who can deal with your ancestor is a patient troll who deserves the world, and you intend on delivering.

It’s a shame he don’t have no enemies you know of to juggle pieces of their corpses like in the old ways. Following old school traditions like that would surely impress the guy, but you’re more partial to modern courting anyway.

Next night you immediately don the Funny Bone getup and head straight for his quarters. This time he’s there and answers after only a moment. You grin up at him and invite him to the celebration. Motherfucker hesitates a second before tentatively nodding and saying he’ll come in a bit once he’s made himself presentable. A shame he doesn’t mean he’s gonna up and lose some layers, but you still agree and tell him you can’t wait to see him there.

Heading back to the Mirthhall, you hardly step foot inside before being bombarded on either side. Truffa’s got their arm wrapped around yours so you can’t escape while Axandr’s resting his chin on your shoulder and gazing at you eagerly like he’s a wiggler waiting for story time. So you up and deliver a goddamn story. Their eyes both light up and Truffa claps you on the back. Axandr squeezes you tight and calls for someone to bring over a bottle of Faygo, shaking it up and spraying it around.

You get caught up in celebration for a bit, an ocular glued to the door at all times no matter if you’re twirling around or hopping up on tables or knocking horns with people. It almost gets to be that you fear a motherfucker changed his mind and ain’t gonna show at all. _But then_.

Blessed honk be the Messiahs, they are _good_.

Like a Clownmark movie channel special you spin around the room, stoping a few feet in front of the door just as it opens, a fine mist of Faygo in the air, and there’s Horuss motherfucking Zahhak. He looks nervous as shit, but he’s here anyway—looking fine as fuck. Pretty pony’s gotten himself all dressed up in a classy blue button up you wanna pop open and some black dress pants that hug him so nicely you’re almost jealous of them. You wanna rip them off and hold him yourself.

Instead you just stop and stare and grin like a buffoon, making him be the one who comes up to you.

“Good evening, Gamzee.”

“Good fucking evening, brother. You’ve made a humble clown’s night showing your pretty face here.”

A faint flush starting up he says, “So much flattery is unnecessary, Gamzee.”

“It’s just the wicked truth, Horuss.”

“Oh! Well, thank you for inviting me to this...clownebration.”

You honk in delight.

“Ever joined in on Laffivus? Get your righteous mirth on?”

“Truthfully, no. It’s quite loud in here, and incredibly lewd. And sweet Seabiscuit, are there people _pailing_? And so close to open flames.”

“Ha, yup. Gotta show your devotion to Messiahs and quadrants alike however the urges grip you.”

Horuss hums, tearing his gaze away from the impromptu orgy to get his focus back on you. Grin only widening, you take one of his hands in yours. He puts up no resistance, and a thrill runs across your spine. You take a moment just to up and enjoy this bitchtits contact, examining his hand up close. It’s so broad and calloused where a motherfucker’s always drawing back his mighty bow. You know he’s always tinkering around, too, and making shit. You can spot a few marks and scars from what you imagine are wayward inventions getting the best of him. Every blemish is beautiful and you crave to know the story of each one.

Your oculars roam a little further up. You notice he’s got those cuff link things you ain’t ever understood the purpose of, shiny symbols of his sign, and while usually you’d think a motherfucker with these things on were frumpy, on him they fit.

“Dance with me?”

“I haven’t danced in sweeps, and certainly not the kind of dancing you’ve been doing. I’m more than happy to watch, though.”

“Alright, motherfucker, whatever you want. You just stand back and enjoy the show.”

You toss him a wink that you swear makes him bluer in the face before pulling him back over into the fray. Truffa, all smiles, brings over a chair and pushes it against the backs of his legs until Horuss gets the hint and sits down. Fresh energy pumping through your veins, you hop up on a table beside Axandr who’s got out one of his lit torches and is up and wowing the crowd with fire tricks. He gives you a look that speaks volumes; motherfucker knows you wanna impress your sorta date and is up and gonna help.

He takes a deep breath and whips the torch towards you. Soon as you see him start to exhale you duck, and fire bursts over your head, right between your horns. You lurch around to his other side, and the fire follows. With every step, every pirouette, every jump you deftly dodge the flames with some of your best moves. You keep it up for as long as he keeps breathing, until the flames are weak things instead on long reaching spectacles. Then you finish with a final spin and a handstand as fire nips at your ankles right in front of Horuss. You give him an upside down wink, a few feathers slowly falling from your outfit to his lap. He claps as the crowd cheers, and you beam.

Breathless, you right yourself and sit on the edge, gangly feet dangling off. He’s close enough that your foot brushes against his knee occasionally in its natural swing. He doesn’t say a thing about it or move or up and manually move you. Maybe it’s little, but it’s a good sign.

“You’re quite talented, Gamzee.”

“I just don’t wanna get my eyebrows singed off again. Shit hurts.”

“I do recall when you were first conscripted your eyebrows maresteriously disappeared one night.”

“I usually ain’t the fastest learner, but a motherfucker figures things out when his hair is on the line.”

That earns a little snort. Makes your pusher flip. You like amusing this motherfucker, wanna hear him really laugh.

After a bit of shooting the shit, you get pulled into more dancing, this time with less fire—though there’s still some. First you just do your damndest to show off, shake your ass enticingly and eat up the deep blue blush on his face. After a while you manage to coax the motherfucker to his feet. He doesn’t dance, just standing their awkward like some misplaced sweating statue as clowns twirl around him. You don’t push him to participate, just happy he’s up and near you.

Dancing in the Mirthhall turns into a clowngo line that spills out into the hallway. There are hands everywhere, holding and groping, and you manage to get your paws on Horuss’ waist. God _damn_ he’s solid. Motherfucker could crush you with these miraculous thighs and you’d thank him with your last breath.

He keeps close to you, and you’re all aware it’s just ‘cause he don’t wanna be trollhandled by all these other motherfuckers, but you ain’t gonna complain about the good luck. Just take a good whiff when he don’t realize and breathe in his musk. Could bottle that scent up and keep it on your platformside table. Course, you’d rather have the source itself snug in your coon with you. Under you, above you. You ain’t a picky motherfucker.

But you are a horny motherfucker, and damn you’re popping a wiggly and ain’t even anything hot and heavy happening. You just hope it ain’t obvious, and hope that no geneslime drips between the bones of your codpiece. Pretty sure that might spook your pony.

As you dance up and down the halls with righteous whooping and honking, several people shake up some Faygos and spray you all down. Horuss jumps back like an indignant animal. You can’t help snickering as the motherfucker pulls a blue handkerchief from his pocket. Then, figuring you should be a gentleclown, you take it from him and start dabbing fruitlessly at the sticky moistness all over him. Ain’t really affective, but you think he up and got his appreciation on for the gesture nonetheless. Least, you assume, by the way he sort of returns your smile before taking the handkerchief back.

“Wanna abscond with me?” you ask, standing up on your tippy fronds so you can speak into his ear.

Horuss nods, and before his head has even stilled you’re grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the group, only sparing a quick glance and wink at your companions.

You have to go a ways off until the wicked merriment is just a faint buzz in the background. Then you slow, walking side by side as your arms dangle between each other. You let go of his wrist only to lower your hand, linking your pinkies together. He don’t pull away, and damn is your pusher all up and trying to break your chest cavity with how it’s drumming wildly.

“So is a brother getting his enjoyment on?”

“That was surely an experience. You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Laffvus is my favorite honkiday. All this peace is in the air.”

“Peace?” he repeats incredulously.

“Yeah, motherfucking peace. Ain’t look or sound like it, but I’m not talking about that sort of peace. I’m talking about siblinghood, trolls coming together, quadrants getting their hate and love on, new relationships getting their start. Comradeship, brother. Coming together. That’s what it’s all about. Yeah there’s some bloodshed, but it’s all in good fun. Mostly. Even when a motherfucker catches their bulge on fire they’re still all smiles.”

“That’s a beautifoal sentiment, Gamzee. A rather horsible image at the end there, but the rest was certainly mooving.”

You shrug shyly, ducking your head.

“I ain’t the best motherfucker with words unless we’re throwing down some sick beats, but I got images in my head, brother, heretical images of a future where everybody’s all happy and getting along, no matter the pretty blood in their veins. No more caste expectations, no more hierarchy, no more culling. Just motherfuckers all up getting their peace on together. That’s what fills my pan and pusher, brother.”

“And yet here you are courting an executioner.”

He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, more perplexed with just a hint of amusement. Can’t blame him; like most of your feelings and decisions it don’t make a lick of sense.

“It ain’t contradictory, brother. You’re damn good at your job, and a motherfucker don’t look bad at all pulling back those strings and firing arrows, but you’re more than just some executioner just like I’m more than just some dumb clown.”

“You’re certainly not a dumb clown, Gamzee. Perhoofs a bit lost in your own pan most nights, but when you put your mind to it you are rather quite insightful. This conversation alone prohooves that.”

That’s it, your pusher is gonna burst. You give Horuss a big fucking smile, taking his hand fully in yours now and squeezing.

“I don’t wanna be following in my ancestor’s footsteps. Motherfucker’s shoes are too big to fill, and I ain’t got my taste on for how they feel anyway. And I’ve seen you. I know a brother’s tired of the way things are. You wouldn’t mind a little change.”

“What you’re saying is borderline treasonous, Gamzee, and as you’re well aware borderline might as well be absolute. Either way will get you culled.”

There’s a tint to his voice you can’t get a place on. Just goes to show you’re right—this motherfucker has _layers_ , and you wanna peel them all back to get a good look at every facet of Horuss Zahhak.

Including his naked layer. You realize you can’t start there, but you know a great first step. Looking right at where his eyes are all hidden by those shades you smile as you ask what you been dying to ask.

“Wanna kiss?”

You ain’t gonna call yourself the most eloquent fucker, but there’s a certain appeal to a brother who’s blunt. Makes Horuss all flustered again, too, that pretty blue spreading across his cheeks and down his neck, disappearing into his fancy shirt. It’s a good look on him. You wanna see how far down it goes, but you got yourself some patience. Just wait and watch with your facegash in a smile as he figures out how words work again.

“It is absolutely haystounding the different ways you’ve directed this conversation, Gamzee. It could give a troll whiplash.”

“My bad, motherfucker. A brother’s all sorts of willing to kiss and make it better.”

“You are _shameless_.”

You just grin wider and nod. You know what you want, why the fuck play games about it? Plenty of other fun you could be having.

His face softens, and he gives a small shake of his head all amused like. You’d even dare to say fondly.

“I suppose I can allow a simple kiss. Not that this means I’ve agreed to a matespritship. Simply that it would behoove me to deny such a small request after showing me such a lovely, albeit sticky, time so far.”

You’re so thrilled you don’t even take the time for a wink or some innuendo before you’re getting up on your tippy fronds, hands all up on that firm chest of his, and pressing your lips together.

The truth of the matter, Messiahs all knowing and understanding, is that you ain’t got much experience in this department. Yeah, you’ve pailed before—and not just for drone season. Sometimes another clown gives you a sultry honk and a motherfucker indulges some. Sure some kissing happens then, but it ain’t ever the main course, and you’ve never been getting your mack on with a flushcrush before. Shit is different.

It’s nice, though. Motherfucker’s lips are surprisingly soft. His skin, too. A brother must moisturize on the reg.

_And these rumble spheres_. Damn, you know it’s only supposed to be a kiss, but you can’t help feeling the guy up a little. It’s like you’ve died and gone to the Dark Carnival, got your hands around some sacred honkifacts. Blessed fucking be.

Holy shit his arms are suddenly around you. Well, least he’s got a big hand spread on the small of your back right above where the codpiece is strapped while his other’s holding your hip so delicately. It’s nice and sweet and tender.

And you’re absolutely imagining him pushing you down and shoving his fat bulge up in your nook while he holds he down with these strong ass muscles of his.

It has to end eventually. He’s the one who does it, gently tugging you back. Not a night in your life have you smiled as hard as this.

Too bad you’re up and sure the night is gonna end far too soon here.

“Thank you for inviting me out, Gamzee. I can’t say that I hated it.”

“Really?”

“Hoofestly, yes. I enjoyed spending time with you. If little else.”

Damn, you didn’t think you could smile any harder but here you motherfucking are. Horuss is a miracle worker.

“Wanna do this again tomorrow? A brother ain’t gonna stop getting his court on, ‘specially not after a kiss like that.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face as he tells you, “Alright, Gamzee. Until tomorrow then.”

“Wait, let a motherfucker walk you to your quarters. Ain’t that the gentletrolly thing to do?”

“Quite right. I shouldn’t deprive you of an exercise of manners. Shall we, then?”

You offer him your arm like you’v seen in all those romcoms the warmest motherfucker you’ve ever known has up and made you watch. Horuss takes it with a gentle touch, and you guide him back to his quarters.

“Good day, Gamzee.”

“How about I pick you up personally tomorrow?” you blurt.

He seems taken by surprise at first before his mouth twitches upwards in a smile.

“I’d like that very much.”

You set a time, pusher soaring. Like you’re already high, you stumbled back to the festivities with the intent on having a small toke, just to settle your nerves. Get you all prepared for tomorrow. Truffa and Axandr are at your sides almost soon as you walk through the Mirthhall doors. Both of them are flushed and breathing heavy like they’ve been dancing since you left. Or maybe pailing, both are pretty likely. Both at once? Now that’d be something to see.

“Gamgam, you’re back. How’d it go?”

“Either he finishes fast or you didn’t get far, brother.”

“What I got is a motherfucking _kiss_ , and it was a miracle right in my mouth.”

“Heh, Truffa gave me a miracle in my mouth earlier, too.”

They slap a hand over his mouth without taking their eyes off you, expression not changing.

“Let’s get a quiet spot and you can tell us all about it, Gamboozle.”

It’s not exactly quiet, but the small supplies closet you all find muffles a lot of the outside merriment. Truffa brings out a pile from their sylladex—“always be prepared, motherfucker, don’t know when you’re gonna get your relax on”—and the three of you climb into it, you in the middle. Truffa brings out some good kush, scent potent and yummy as fuck. Axandr takes out a horn ripped off some poor corpse and grates a generous helping of flakes into the weed before Truffa shakes it all up and rolls a fat blunt. Soon as this good shit hits your lungs it starts doing its thing, and you sag against the pile.

When you’re nice and turvy after a few deep hits, you tell them how things up and went—fucking spectacularly. The kiss, him agreeing on another date, walking him back to his quarters. You admit that you ain’t got a good goddamn idea on what to do next, though. You really wanna wow him.

“Don’t you have a one-wheel device, motherfucker?” Axandr asks. Soon as the words leave his mouth you got half baked ideas forming.

“Whoa now, brother, takes more than a few pretty tricks to woo a motherfucker, especially a guy like big Zahhak.”

“I bagged you with a nifty trick.”

“You crashed into me while trying to juggle balls on fire on a one wheeled device and I punched three of your teeth out. That wasn’t a ‘nifty trick’.”

“But it worked.”

Truffa scowled and took a slow drag off the joint.

“Don’t matter, since Gamgam ain’t aiming for spades with the guy. Just keep on doing what you’re doing now.”

“Getting high?” you ask. They snicker.

“Nah, I mean, all the talking to him and shit you’re doing. It’s gotten you a kiss so far, right? Means motherfucker’s interested. Fancy tricks ain’t gonna be what he wants. He should be wanting you.”

You take a moment to really process all that. Partially because this kush is dank as fuck and partially because you got some heavy thoughts. You really hope Truffa’s right.

But you do really wanna show off how good you are on the one wheeled device now that your legs are long enough to reach the pedals. You’ll just forgo the fire. That ain’t your schtick anyway.

So the next night you get yourself ready, fussing in the mirror more than you ever have. Even run fingers through your wild mane, though it don’t do shit. Then you’re off after making sure you got all the things you need in your sylladex. You get to his quarters early—the first time in your life you ever been _early_ to something. Not a one of your friends would ever believe it. But here you are, all jittery and bouncing on your heels wondering if you should wait or go ahead and knock now. Motherfucker’s probably all gussied up anyway, and might even be impressed with you.

Only takes him a minute to answer, and sure e-fucking-nough the guy’s ready to go looking even prettier than yesterday with a shirt that’s got a stylized outline of his sign in white. You light up when he gets his praise on for you being on time, and suddenly a motherfucker isn’t so nervous. You got this.

Holding out your arm, Horuss takes it gentle as a purrbeast and once again you lead the way feeling like you’re walking on top of cotton candy.

Of course things are still in full swing when you get to the Mirthhall. Even in the brightest daylight hours motherfuckers still be up and partying when it’s Laffivus. And now it’s just two nights left so everyone’s winding up to the main event, squeezing every last drop of celebration out of their souls and bodies both. Also seems like some motherfuckers have been busy—there’s a whole replenished buffet ready with all sorts of tasty treats, with a fountain of Faygo in the middle. It’s kinda squirting all over the place, and overflowing, though. Axandr is there with wide eyes frantically trying to do something while Truffa leans against the table all amused like. You go to check it out.

“What’s happening, motherfuckers?”

“Everything is completely under control,” Axandr assures, touching the top stream and making it spray out at Horuss who sputters indignantly. “Heh, whoops. Welcome to the party, motherfucker.”

“Your incompetence just gets funnier and funnier,” Truffa snickers before lazily turning their eyes on your motherfucker. “Hey there, blue bitch. Ready to get your clown on?”

“Hello, Truffa. That is one way to put it, I suppose. You seem to be having _trouble_ with this fountain.”

“Not me, this jackass. He was put in charge of it by the big clown himself, probably because the motherfucker was so high he could speak to the Messiahs themselves.”

“He ain’t here now, is he?” you wonder, glancing around the hall.

“Nah, he just made an appearance, tossed some orders around, led a whooping jesthymn, then fucked off for another orgy.”

“It’s endearing how involved with his clowngregation he can be,” Horuss comments dryly. Also wetly, because the poor motherfucker has given up on dabbing the Faygo off.

“What can we say? He’s an old school traditionalist, all about that Laffivus culling and pailing.”

“He certainly does enjoy those two particular activities. Instead of repeatedly fiddling with that fountain and making no headway, would you like me to take a look at it?”

“By all means, motherfucker,” Axandr agrees, stepping back as Horuss steps into his spot and looks it over, “but it aint no easy fix. We might have to just plum scrap the whole—well fuck me sideways with a cullingfork.”

“I would rather not,” Horuss replies, and it almost sounds like teasing as the fountain cascades beautifully just like it’s up and supposed to, and from only one little moment of him touching it. Motherfucking miracles.

Truffa falls back against the table, clutching their sides they’re laughing so hard, while Axandr pouts a moment before shrugging and slapping Horuss on the back.

“Goddamn, brother. Impressive.”

“It’s really not.”

“Is to me,” you say, and he glances over at you on the other side of the pouring fountain, and it’s like that movie you watched once, some troll Shakespeare adaptation. Motherfuckers were at a party, too, except at the end they up and died, and you kinda hope your luck’s better than that.

It takes you a minute to realize you’re just staring dreamily at him. Truffa and Axandr are just grinning like this is motherfucking hysterical, and you can feel heat rise to your cheeks. Before you can try and save face, though, there’s a sudden commotion and you all turn, screams of merriment turning into screams of horror.

Just a motherfucker that done got too close to some chainsaws. RIP like three-fourths of his hand, but hey—fresh paint.

“Sweet, I hated that guy,” Axandr comments happily. Truffa grunts.

“Yeah, but motherfucker owes me thirty caegers, he better not die before he pays up.”

Truffa and Axandr head off to check on the guy slash get some of his blood before it’s all gone, leaving you and your date all alone again. Well, as alone as you can get in this brimming hall.

“Brownie?” you offer, picking one up and holding it out to him.

“Thank you, but I have no doubts it’s laced with something.”

“Fair.”

You shrug and pop the whole thing in your mouth. For a moment you chew thoughtfully before nodding with a swallow.

“Motherfucking correct, brother.”

“I’ve been working with clowns for a very long time.”

You catch the subtle tone of _for too long_. While you don’t blame him, you’re hoping to be his exception. Heh, clownception.

You glance around, even though it’s hard to tear your eyes off Horuss every time you look back at him. Motherfucker’s so nice to rest your ganderbulbs on. There’s lotsa things you wanna rest on the blue brother, actually. Your head on his firm chest, your legs thrown over his lap. Maybe your bulge on his face. Rest it between those plump and pretty lips of his.

Damn, you all distracted yourself.

Catching sight of some other Funny Bones doing their Funny Bone business—dancing around, throwing down some sick rhymes, doing some great tricks with hula hoops and fire, just generally spreading merriment—you up and remember how you were gonna wow Horuss. Slotting a few pies into your sylladex, you grab him by the wrist and pull him along. Thankfully he comes willingly because this motherfucker is a solid, sexy brick hive.

The Funny Bones greet you with a warm cheer. Horuss is all stiff and awkward like he still don’t think he should be here, or maybe he just up and doesn’t know how to act around a giggle of clowns outside of business. You’re ready to loosen him up some.

That was absolutely innuendo.

“Hey, motherfuckers, who’s up for a juggle off?”

There are some whoops, which grow louder when you pull out your one-wheel device. A few others pull out their own, one motherfucker’s on stilts, and two got on wheeled frond holders. The whooping gets even more rambunctious when you pull out your juggling choice: pies.

“This is going to get messy, isn’t it?” Horuss muses, almost resigned. You toss him a wink.

“Ain’t no worries, my fine motherfucker. I ain’t gonna get a single crumb on your pretty duds.”

He hums, stepping out of the way as the juggle off starts. The goal is twofold—be the last juggler standing _and_ be goddamn impressive. After all, if you ain’t entertaining the crowd then what’s the point?

Course, only motherfucker you wanna entertain is Horuss, and he’s got his bulbs trained on you from behind those glasses of his. You can _feel_ them, and it spurs you on.

This is the height of your multitasking abilities. You got pies flying in an arch around your noggin while you ride across the hall, swerving around jiving clowns and putting on a show. At first you keep it tame enough, four pies while you pedal. Just gotta get into your groove before you bring out the big horns.

Trolls move out of your way and cheer you on, maybe a few heckles here and there from some who are real into what your other Funny Bones are doing. It just makes you wanna impress even more. Especially when the two on wheeled frondwear skate circles around you juggling colored balls between them. It’s fancy as fuck, but you ain’t down and out yet.

Speedily you whip out a couple of horns, spacing them out evenly between the pies. Every time you toss them you squeeze out a little honk, much to the delight of the crowd.

One of the other one-wheelers goes careening into a teal just up and trying to get his snack on which starts a brawl when the guy’s moirail flips. They end up knocking back into another one-wheeler, so there’s two of your competition down already. You grin, tongue hanging out the corner of your mouth.

Horuss is watching you so intently and boy is it doing things to your bulge. You toss him a wink before spinning around, still keeping up your juggling. Now that’s goddamn impressive if you do say so yourself, which you have to because the crowd is cheering too loud for you to doubt yourself.

Next to go is the stilts motherfucker, who falls into the last couple of one-wheelers. Clubs and cake go flying everywhere, and you motherfucking dodge it all like the deft ninja you up and are. Now it’s just you and the wheeled frondwearers who are admittedly pretty damn good. They’ve started throwing daggers back and forth in between their hemospectrum of balls. It’s just a stream of impressive catch and toss, both closing and widening the gap between them and somehow keeping it all going without dropping a single motherfucking thing.

You’re determined to give it your all, but you don’t up and know what else to do right now. Then you hear your name and find Truff and Axandr who toss a couple of the dropped balls in your direction. You lean forward to snatch them up into your tumbling, trying to recalibrate real quick before motioning for them to toss a few more in. Then for good measure Axandr throws a couple Faygo bottles at you which you barely catch and get moving. A little clunky, but you manage.

Now this is what you’re talking about! Pretty damn bitchtits, actually. Once your arch is a wide circle of goodies you turn yourself right back around to show Horuss.You nearly drop everything right there at what you see.

“Look at you go, tiny motherfucker!"

Your ancestor is grinning big and wide over at you from where he’s standing beside Horuss, leaning a big arm on his head. Horuss is all tense again, worse than you’ve seen him at this shindig, more like how he’s usually holding himself during business hours. All tight and frowning and shit. Makes your pusher ache.

Still you keep going, juggling as your opponents spin past you. With a deep breath you find your center and tell yourself that you got this. You’re one wicked biz nasty motherfucker who’s gonna up and impress his flushcrush, gonna rock his—

Holy shit Kurloz is tossing a couple of juggling clubs at you.

You do your best to catch them, and one you do! Only problem is you motherfucking catch it with your facegash, and it feels like it gives you a whole new one. Even worse is you lose hold of everything, and gravity does its goddamn job.

Bunch of stuff happens all at once. After getting knocked right the fuck good, you up and get pushed sideways, your shit going everywhere save for a Faygo and pie you manage to barely grab more by luck than sight because you’re all sorts of dizzy and blurry eyed now. So of course you ain’t seen it when the wheeled frond wearers spin close, and you all motherfucking get tangled up with them, crashing forward and the pie flinging forward. You end up crashed to the ground, slamming against the Faygo that bursts open, drenching you in an ocean of tasty grape.

Well if that ain’t a motherfucking spectacle you don’t know what is.

The crowd is uproarious with cheers and laughter, the latter of which you can plainly make out from your ancestor. Sounds like it was the most righteously hilarious shit he’s witnessed all sweep. It ascends above all the other noise, fills your auditory clots like an infection. You up and got your platonic hate on for that stupid motherfucking ancestor of yours. Wouldn’t know a real joke if it came up, slapped his ass, and called him lusus.

Sitting up, you wipe Faygo from your eyes and slowly open them, trying not to up and get that sweet liquid in your oculars. You know from experience how motherfucking unpleasant that is. When you can see again you almost wish you couldn’t.

That last pie ended up creaming all over Horuss’ face. Whoops. You can only watch in mortification as he scrapes whipped cream off and indignantly flicks it from his fingers onto the sticky floor.

Welp. All you can do is get your scrawny ass off the floor, dust yourself off, realize it ain’t doing anything because you’re soaked, and go over to the motherfucker. You just wish Kurloz would make himself scarce again so you could properly apologize to Horuss. Maybe offer to clean him up. With your tongue.

Damn, that’s real tempting. Your fingers itch to grab him and abscond so you can try that out.

But your Messiah’s damned, unrighteous bastard of an ancestor is talking, slapping Horuss on the back and making him jerk an impressive half centimeter.

“What a fucking sight, little motherfucker! Got this blue bitch good.”

There are tears in his ocular bulbs, he’s laughing so hard. Rage and embarrassment are bubbling up inside of you but ain’t a damn thing you can do but take it.

Horuss, however, is a motherfucking expert and calmly tells him, “Excuse me, your clownllency, I should go clean myself up.”

Kurloz just throws his big head back and lets out a honking laugh that makes your auditory clots want to fall right off your head. Over the tops of his shades Horuss catches your eye and motions for you to follow him. So of course you motherfucking do.

Neither of you speak until you’re close to his quarters, the cacophony of the festivities well behind you. It’s Horuss who up and breaks the silence, voice surprisingly light. Almost like the motherfucker’s amused.

“Well that was certainly a sight, Gamzee.”

“Ha, yeah. Sorry about the pie, brother. Kinda got away from me at the end there.”

“No worries, it will wash off. I can’t say it’s necessarily pleasant, but I’ll survive.” He turns to you, smiling, and your pusher nearly stops. “That was quite an impressive display, Gamzee. Your only downfall was being taken by surprise.”

“Yeah, the Grand Highbitch really likes to shove his sniffnode where it don’t got no business being. Still, sorry that you’re all a motherfucking mess now.”

“Truhoofully, I had expected as much. My luck at gatherings, especially when clowns are involved, is nightmarishly low. Neigh, it was bound to happen, one way or another. At least it was attached to a good show.”

You beam, feeling like a weight’s been knocked clean off your shoulders. You even stop slouching as much.

It feels like way too soon again that you’re at his quarters. You pause, trying to untwist your tongue. Once again Horuss up and finds words before you do, and ain’t they surprising.

“Would you like to come inside?”

You nod so quick you make yourself dizzy again. When he opens the door for you, you zip in quick like you’re scared he’s gonna recant the offer. Not that you’d blame the motherfucker. You’re a dripping mess, after all, and you still feel somewhat responsible for the cream and pie filling in his fine hair. You wanna run your fronds through it and get it all out for him.

“You’re welcome to use the ablution trap, Gamzee. I’ll just get you some fresh towels.”

“Hold on, brother,” you say, reaching out and grasping his wrist before he can abscond. Gathering all your courage before it can abscond, either, you ask, “Before all that, mind telling this clown what you’re up and thinking?”

“That’s not very specific, Gamzee. I happen to hayve plenty of thoughts running through my pan right now.”

“Any of them about if you wanna get with me or nah? No pressure, but a troll might get some ideas, with a motherfucker up and inviting him in and telling him to go take a shower.”

“That he’s sticky and covered in Faygo?”

You snort, feeling tension that had been settling in suddenly leave you. Motherfucker’s got a way, don’t he?

“Gamzee.” The way he says your name makes your pusher flutter, and you gaze at his face hopefully. “I would not mind giving this a try. Us, I mean. A matespritship.”

You don’t think you’ll ever stop grinning. If this is actually just a hallucination right before you go to the lights of the Dark Carnival you don’t mind one bit. Before he can say anything else you swoop forward and throw your arms around him, mouths crashing together. After a moment his arms encircle you back and you’re engulfed in a miracle.

It’s not as gentle as the first time, not by a long shot. You radiate urgent passion, and he’s reciprocating, not making you slow down. Doesn’t seem to mind when you go ahead and give in to your earlier desires, running a hand through his soft locks. You ain’t bothered when you smear cream around, ain’t bothered when you tilt your head and get some on your cheek. Idly you wonder if you taste like Faygo.

Eventually you both part, and you feel dazed in a miraculous way. Just gaze up at him all dopey like, thrilled to your very core, from the tip of your horns to your curling toes. He smiles back at you, face flushed.

“That was nice, Gamzee. But we really should get cleaned up now.”

“Aight. Shower with me?”

His face gets bluer behind the cream.

“Ain’t nothing funny gotta happen, brother. Just bathing. Maybe some more kissing, because that’s some wicked bitchtits shit right there. We’ll just let the night take us where it flows naturally, yeah?”

For a moment he contemplates that before finally nodding. Only reason you ain’t jumping for joy is ‘cause the motherfucker’s strong arms are still around you, holding you steady. Feels good. Doesn’t keep you from surging forward and kissing him again.

This one hardly lasts long at all, and instantly you miss his mouth, but that’s fine. You foresee a hell lot more kissing in your future, immediate and hopefully otherwise.

He takes your hand gently in his and leads you to the ablutionblock. Damn, you were not expecting a marble statue of a musclebeast holding a tray of shampoos and shit. It just kinda stares at you. Heh, you kinda like it. When Horuss’ back is turned as he fills the large tub built right into the floor with water, you poke its chiseled abs. Nice. Can’t wait to see how similar his are.

And here’s your chance.

After putting in a few drops of some oil that fills the block with a sweet smell, he straightens and turns to you. You decide it’s only right for you to help him out of those dirty clothes, so you get your graspers around his shirt buttons and start popping. You catch his little intake of breath as he stands there letting you, watching intently.

Soon as they’re all freed and the shirt is hanging open you push it off his shoulders and take in the sight. Motherfucker is _ripped_. Those rumble spheres could crush you with a single flex. His nipples are hard and you’re pretty sure they could poke your damn eyes out, like fucking stalactites or stalagmites which the fuck ever. Hot fucking damn, you’re one lucky clown.

Sending a quick prayer of thanks to the Messiahs, you mouth those solid rumble spheres, delighting in the gasp he lets out. Horuss holds your hips, and you think it’s more for his sake than yours as you find a spot you like and suck.

“My, you moove fast when you want to.”

You just hum around the flesh in your mouth. He ain’t pulling you off so you keep on going until your jaw is starting to ache. Then you simply move to his other rumble sphere and give it the same treatment, hands moving along his solid frame and groping to your pusher’s content.

“Gamzee, as much as I am hoofestly enjoying this, ah, we should move into the ablution trap.”

You pull back just long enough to agree before finding a new spot, up at his neck this time, and latching on. Horuss groans.

When it’s apparent that you ain’t gonna be moving he just up and hoists you into his arms by the waist and lowers you both into the trap, clothes and all. While you continue necking him, dragging your tongue from his collarbone up to his ear and chittering at the shiver you earn, he works on getting your Funny Bone outfit off. He’s so _delicate_. As he gets the stuff off you his fingers trail along your bare skin. He starts with the feathers, setting them safely aside on the ledge, pulls off your arm adornments and lays them down. Then he slowly makes his way up to your horn decorations, untangling them so carefully before they get set aside, too, with a last couple of chimes. Then for a moment he just massages down your back, and you absolutely melt into his touch.

Your bulge is fully unsheathed, rubbing against the bones of your codpiece. Your nook is dripping out into the water, and you ain’t gonna be shocked none when you’re both just swimming in watered down slurry.

His hands trail lower, to the strap holding your codpiece in place. Instead of taking it off he sort of strokes along the strap, turning so his mouth is up against your ear.

“Gamzee,” he speaks softly, almost like he’s alright if you don’t hear him, “what exactly do you see in me?”

“Motherfucker, there’s a mirror right over there.”

He lets out a startled bark of laughter, shaking his head. You pull back to get a good gander at him.

“Ain’t just your looks, brother, though damn do you look _fine_. More than that, you’re nice.”

“I’m an executioner.”

“And I’m a subjegglet. Your point?”

He cups your face, wet thumb rubbing across your cheek as he stares so intensely in your eyes. His glasses has slid down his nose so you see his twinkling indigo bulbs clearly, clearer than you ever have. You can’t parse what all’s running through his pan, but you think it might be good.

“You’re quite the interesting one, Gamzee.”

Can’t reply to that, seeing as he leans forward and captures your lips with his. Not that you’re complaining. A motherfucker ain’t ever gonna get tired of kissing him.

He takes his time both with the kiss and getting your codpiece off. Plays with the buckle, like he’s up and debating on if he should even bother or leave your poor bulge trapped like a heretic in chains. And the motherfucker’s still got pants on! You usually don’t mind the slow and easy sort of things, pailing that lasts all night and day, well into tomorrow, but a motherfucker’s got _needs._

You whine into his mouth, trying to grind against him. He holds your hips still with just the one hand, though, and damn if that doesn’t just get you hornier. You’re like a fucking rag doll in this motherfucker’s capable hands, and you’re up and being played with like such. This time it’s you who breaks the kiss so you can beg.

“Please, motherfucker, get this codpiece off and touch me already.”

“Of horse, Gamzee.”

Motherfucker sounds amused. Not that you’re focusing on that for long, since he’s actually unbuckling the codpiece and setting it with the rest of your stuff. Instantly your bulge tries to tangle with his hands but they’re gone too soon for it to get a good grip, so instead it presses up against his abdomen. Gets its appreciation on for those thick muscles.

Trilling, you reach for his glasses and he leans forward, letting you take them off and place them with your stuff. Makes your pusher thud even harder, this new level of intimacy. It leaves his face fully open to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

He kisses you again, hands exploring your body all over. You grind properly against his lap, and this time he lets you. Excitedly you keep it up, feeling his own budding bulge pressing against his pants and telling you he’s as into you as you are him. Insecurities you ain’t even consciously been aware off suddenly fly right out.

“Ain’t right you still got some clothes on, motherfucker,” you pant once the two of you break apart.

“Would you like me to take them off?”

He’s playing innocent and it shouldn’t be so hot, but it is, and you nod like a wiggler who forgot how to speak. He just smiles and shimmies out of his pants finally.

With nothing between you two now except the water, you push forward. As your mouths find each other again, your bulge finds his and twines around the thick motherfucker like it’s afraid it’s not gonna get another chance. And damn do you mean _thick_. Your nook clenches as you realize how snug it’s gonna be up there. You’re so damn ready. You are gonna be motherfucking filled to brimming, and you are gonna ride this pony until you can’t ride no more. Nah, not a pony. A motherfucking _stallion_.

One of his hands grabs your ass, pushing your flush against him, while the other goes up to pet your hair. You’re trilling and purring and making all sorts of sounds. It’d be embarrassing if you weren’t so fucking into what was going on, and weren’t so sure he was up and enjoying himself, too.

Suddenly you remember you have hands, too, and get them all over him, pawing like some overzealous meowbeast. No way you can get enough of these muscles, it’s just not possible. You squeeze them, thrilling at their firm mass, bulge twitching and nook clenching in a way you know means you’re leaking more pre-slurry into your bathwater.

Damn, the way your bulges are undulating together, you’re pretty sure you’re gonna pail pretty soon. You pull back and tell him as much, but he just keeps on petting you and says, “That’s fine, Gamzee. You did say we should just go wherever the night takes us, after all.”

A tingly sort of warmth washes over you, and smiling all giddy you start kissing along his neck, letting your bulges do their thing. Horuss leans back against the trap with a sigh, kneading your ass languidly while he runs fingers along your horns. Occasionally you nip at his flesh, but never break skin. Just sort of teasing, breaking up the kissing.

“Mm, that’s hoofenly, Gamzee. You’re doing splendidly.”

You trill at that praise, hips rocking. It really doesn’t take long before a rush shoots through you, and you’re pailing. It’s not a full orgasm, not what you’re really craving, but damn does it feel nice and make you pause, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. He rubs the back of your neck soothingly, turning to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Do you want to keep going, Gamzee, or is that too much?”

“I need your motherfucking bulge in my nook or I will up and die, brother. I am _begging_ you.”

You ain’t even offended at his chuckle, more delighted as he’s adjusting you, puling his bulge from your tired one and guiding it to your ready nook. He presses in slowly, and a trill starts up in your chest and doesn’t stop until he’s bottomed out what feels like an eternity later. He’s real gentle, takes his time getting all the ways inside you. You close your eyes and let the sensations wash over you, biting your lip as you are indeed filled to the motherfucking _brim_.

Before he was in you, you thought Horuss was thick. Now that his squirming bulge is snug in your nook hot motherfucking _damn_. Didn’t know your nook walls could stretch like this. He’s igniting every single goddamn nerve you got, and it is motherfucking miraculous.

Your gut tightens and you feel warm all over. Somehow you get your lips on his and you kiss as he gently rocks your hips together. Pleasure builds and builds and builds, and when you orgasm again your whole body feels it, and you think you’ll feel it for nights. You sag against him with something between a whimper, a honk, and a chitter. He strokes your spine, making you shiver.

“Tell me if it’s too much, Gamzee,” he says.

You trill, too dazed for words. His bulge keeps going, pumping inside of you. Then he’s tensing up, and you can feel his pump biscuit racing, hear his heavy breaths so close to your ear, and then your seedflap’s being filled with so much slurry it seems to go on forever, and you don’t think you could take another drop. Plenty is seeping into the water, you’re sure, and whenever he pulls out more will follow. When he does try to pull out, though, you whine until he stills, brushing fingers against your hip reassuringly.

Your nook might be sore for days, actually—especially because like hell you’re not taking his bulge for another spin soon as you both are recovered. At this rate if he actually wants to get cleaned he’s gonna have to prepare a whole new bath.

“How was that?” he wonders after a while.

“Motherfucker.”

It’s all you can manage, and it’s more of a sigh than a proper word. Makes him chuckle, a pretty sound that you crave more of.

“If you require something just let me know, Gamzee. Otherwise, just rest for as long as you need.”

You’re all up and purring now. Horuss keeps on stroking skin, petting your hair, just touching you all nice like. Ain’t ever been held like this. It’s too fucking nice to even remember how it felt to not be. You nestle further against him, giving lazy kisses to the spot of neck you can reach without really moving your head.

Now ain’t this the only motherfucking way to spend a honkiday?

**Author's Note:**

> I like to imagine Equius is somewhere in this mix, maybe roped into one of GHB's orgies idk.


End file.
